#Hallan Griel

[isqueedmyself]

He's well taller than I am, and more heavily musceled as well, this fellow lying quietly against the base of the rock. H was obviously hoping I hadn't seen him. I wonder briefly if he's seen me, but he must have, or else why hide?

But if he was hiding, did he know I have seen him? Could I just walk away up the dale?

I try.

About thirty seconds later, I hear running footsteps behind me. I turn and see a gray man--his complexion is actually gray, like a cloth that's wiped the hearth, or something. His bat ears flop as he runs, and peggish fangs jut from the lower jaw clenched hard against the uppoer one.

Hobgoblin.

He's a young hobgoblin, not yet out of his teens from the look of him. He wears no armor, only simple clothing. He does carry a small round shield in one hand and a longsword in the other, and he barrels after Hallan like incarnate goblinoid fury.

Oh, dear. What am I supposed to do now?

[isqueedmyself]

The depths of the vale are still in shadow, but the top of the west side turns gold as the sun gains altitude. Pink drifts of winter heath lie all aroind, and swirls of dark blue buntings dance in the air. Far beyond, across the expanse of the moor, Greater Owlwood stretches from north to south, spearheads of spruce popping up now and again above round beeches and golden larch and silvery birch.

Nearer to hand, cracked white fingers of stone project from the ground as if they were digging their way out of a mass grave.

Why had I come up here? What had I expected? What was I supposed to do now?

And what was that lying against the bottom of that bone-white tor, almost concealed by the heather?

And had it just moved?

[isqueedmyself]

Hallan's picture was created using Portrait Works.

Part Two I hurry through the knee-high heather until I clear the ridge behind our farm and on down the slope a bit into the next dale. Then I pause to catch my breath and consider my next move.

Chipping Over is the nearest village. I could be there by midmorning. There might be work available of a sort, but not much until the market at the end of the week. Also, this is the first place my mother will look for me, and it would be supremely embarrassing to be dragged through the streets by the ears by a screeching little old lady. I love by mum, but she does do that at times.

There's Fraymere House, too, Ser Bardach's seat. He'd likely have something for a brawny lad with a sharp ax. Of course, my mum is just as likely to show up there and scream until Ser Bardach laughs himself silly and sends me home.

Or, a day's journey up beyond the hills, there's the Barleymoor. I don't know why they call it that, since there's not a single ear of barley growing anywhere up there. There are meant to be ruins here and there, though, as well as hideouts of quite a few malefactors. Rich malefactors, they are, rich enough to have attracted lads from farm and village before.

None of those lads has actually come back to give an account of themselves, though.

Still, that's one place Mum's not going to come looking for me. And hey, maybe the malefactors are hiring.

I turn up the little valley and stride toward the source of its rivulet and the wide empty moorland beyond.

[isqueedmyself]

I've been playing RPGs for decades, but I'm about to switch systems. To learn the new one, Pathfinder 1E, I'm playing a solo campaign and keeping a game journal as I go.

Which is a long-winded way of saying lookie what my character did!

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Part One I, Hallan Griel, youngest son of a yeoman of Farron in the Leilish Hills in the wilds of Varisia, resolve to seek my fortune this 15th day of Gozran in the 4723rd year since Starfall.

Whether my mother wants me to or not.

And so in the early hours of this morning, when the moon's sickle has made its way toward the western horizon, I have risen from my pallet, taken my Nunkle Clafin's greatax from the wall with a prayer for his long-departed spirit, shouldered my pack of necessities and tiptoed out the door.

And I have forgotten my waterskin.

My father meets me at the door when I return for it and hands me the waterskin and a pair of daggers.

"Hide the spare in your boot," he tells me, "and good luck to you. If you're going, best be gone. She'll be up soon to lay the fire."

I went.